


god of the golden armour

by moonfishes



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alexios is Deimos (Assassin's Creed), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Brasidas meets Deimos in Korinth before he meets Kassandra, Korinth, M/M, Mid-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfishes/pseuds/moonfishes
Summary: Brasidas meets Deimos in Korinth first.
Relationships: Alexios/Brasidas (Assassin's Creed), Brasidas/Deimos (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	god of the golden armour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



> Set in 430BCE, just before Kassandra meets Brasidas. Deimos!Alexios is 21 in this, and (I think) Brasidas should be in his early 30s?
> 
> Apparently "hetairoi" means companion/comrade in Ancient Greek--an Odyssey reimagining of Two Bros, perhaps?

The Porneion at night was a sight to behold. Colourful tapestries lined the sides of the stone walls, and lush green vines crawled up the lattice to entwine with drapes that rippled like a pink sea overhead. It was summer, and the moon, cradled in Artemis’ embrace, shone brilliantly white in the night sky. Coupled with the purple and yellow lights of the Porneion, it produced a riot of colours across the ground—and along with it, a riot of people, lost to the skills of Korinth’s _hetairai._

Pressed against a column, Brasidas found himself observing his surroundings. Anthousa had reminded him that her _hetairai_ came first: he would have to wait in order to get an audience with her. So he waited, and observed. Around him, everyone was drunk with wine and sex; he could hear the soft plucking of the lute accompanied by melodic laughter, as well as the gasps and groans of pleasure. 

But at the far left corner, was a silent figure: a boy, not older than twenty, his handsome face swallowed by the shadowy golden-glow of the nearby braziers. Like Brasidas, he seemed out of place in the revelry: stoic amidst a sea of pleasure, gilded in golden armour that distinguished him from the rest of the crowd. 

Despite his better judgement, Brasidas approached. While he did not know _why,_ they were obviously in a similar predicament— _hetairoi_ of sorts, caught in an unwelcome, unwanted situation. “Anthousa’s certainly drawn a crowd tonight,” he said, and held out a cup of wine as a friendly offering. “Not enjoying the festivities?”

The boy grunted, but accepted the wine anyways; Brasidas watched with a raised eyebrow as he drained the entire cup in one go. “What is there to enjoy?” he asked, sneering. “A good fuck? I can get that anywhere. I don’t have to get that here.”

“That much is true,” Brasidas acknowledged. “But Korinth is known for their _hetairai.”_

“I just told you. I don’t care.” Without sparing a look at Brasidas, the boy said: “You are Spartan.” He did not pose it as a question; merely stated it as a fact.

Brasidas hadn’t bothered to hide it. Korinth was, after all, an ally to Sparta. “Yes.”

“A captain?”

It wasn’t surprising that the boy thought he was a soldier—the _agoge_ had planted the seed of military discipline in him, and it rooted itself in every aspect of his character; to uproot it would be to relinquish his Spartan nationality. It was, however, surprising that the boy had not just assumed he was one of the many Spartan hoplites who went in and out of the city. It was easier to pass as a hoplite in places like this, and most civilians accepted him as one: without his flashy armour, he was just as faceless as any regular soldier. 

“What makes you think I’m not a hoplite?” He wasn’t a captain either, but that was not information he wanted to offer. 

The boy scoffed. “Do you take me for an idiot? How could a lowly foot-soldier afford to show his face around here?”

Brasidas laughed. “Well, you look young; I’m surprised you’re not one of those lowly foot-soldiers.”

“I’m _twenty-one,_ ” the boy growled. Brasidas had obviously struck a nerve—the boy’s neck had flushed red, and his hands were clenched into fists. “I’m not a little boy.”

“And twenty-one is a perfectly customary age for a hoplite. Yet you obviously aren’t one. So, tell me, what are you doing here?”

“I am from here.”

Brasidas laughed again, amused. “You are not a _hetaira_.”

A pause. The boy looked at him, considering. There was something animalistic about the look in his eyes: it made Brasidas feel like he was being preyed upon, clawed open for examination. “No,” the boy agreed, and Brasidas was struck by just how deep his voice was, weathered with aggression beyond his age. “But you want me to be one, don’t you?” 

It was Brasidas’ turn to redden. The boy was smirking at him now, eyes trailing lazily over Brasidas’ body. He was beautiful in a wild way—a prowling animal searching for his prey, all leonine charm and savage grace. 

Brasidas swallowed and met his gaze. He was tempted, but no—there was a mission to complete, a King’s orders to follow. Brasidas could not let a pretty face lead him astray. “I’m not here for that,” he said, but there was hesitation in his voice, and no doubt that the boy could hear it.

“Of course not,” the boy drawled. “You’re just distracted by me. It's expected. But it _is_ surprising to see you here. What is a honourable Spartan officer doing in the Porneion, of all places?”

The _hetairai_ ran the city—at least, they did until the Monger came—so it was not uncommon for Spartan officers to meet with Anthousa to discuss any pressing issues. Brasidas figured it would not hurt to tell the truth. “A meeting with Anthousa.”

“Oh? And what business do you have with her?”

“Just matters regarding the city,” Brasidas said, as vaguely as he could—there were eyes all around the city. He could not risk being found out, especially not when tensions were already running so high. 

“Would it, by any chance, have to do with the Monger?”

Brasidas stilled. “What makes you think that?”

“You really do think I’m an idiot.” The boy spat on the floor, scowling. “I don’t think there are any other _matters_ in Korinth at the moment. Don’t worry. I’m not working for him,” he added, when Brasidas eyed him warily. “I know about him. I will help you. But I want something in return.”

“What?”

The boy smiled, bearing a row of shark-like teeth. “Your name.”

At Methone, Brasidas had broken through the Athenian army with only a handful of soldiers. He had come back a hero, and it was expected that he would be _ephor_ this year. News travelled fast throughout the Greek world, and he was aware that his name carried some fame to it; to utter his name here, in a city of near-lawlessness, would surely be to court death. “I—” he said, and hesitated—there was no way to lie about it. The boy already knew too much. But he tried, anyways. “Lysander.” 

“Lysander?” The boy raised an eyebrow. His gaze was dark, but Brasidas did not let himself falter. “Alright, _Lysander.”_ He put a hand on Brasidas’ chestplate and leaned in close, so that his mouth was brushing the tip of Brasidas’ right ear. “I keep my promises. The Monger has a warehouse, located in the Port of Lechacion. It’s where he makes his money: by not only supplying weapons to Sparta, but to Athens as well. I’m sure there are ledgers you can scour. Do what you want with that information.”

“Thank you,” Brasidas exhaled, grateful; the boy bit his earlobe and drew away. “But why?”

“Why?” the boy repeated, mockingly.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Let’s just say I’m curious to see what you’ll do.” The boy grinned, a shark honing in on its bait. “Now—go. Go meet Anthousa.”

“I still don’t know anything about you,” Brasidas huffed. “You’ve ignored most of my questions. Or refused to answer them. Are you just going to leave me in the dark? Will you not tell me who you are?” 

The boy laughed. It was not a kind sound—there was _victory_ in it, loud and clear, and the memory of it would haunt Brasidas in the years to come. “You will know. I will make sure of it,” he said, with easy confidence. “But for now, let me remain as a pretty face in your memory. A pretty face you declined to fuck, despite being given the opportunity. That’s all you need to remember me as.”

“Will you give me your name, at least?”

“Deimos,” he said, and Brasidas would remember the way he smiled: beautiful and terrible, just like his namesake. _Deimos:_ son of Ares and Aphrodite, armed with thunder. God of terror, wager of war. “My name is Deimos.”


End file.
